


So Many Times Sherlock Couldn't Kill Himself, But One Time Someone Gave Him Something To Keep Living For

by Arkee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "Sometimes all that you need is someone to hold you close.", Angst, Did I Mention Angst?, John Watson is his only salvation, M/M, also angst, angst edging the suicide borders, too much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:49:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arkee/pseuds/Arkee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Walking towards the cliff to let himself fall to death, he doesn’t regret anything. There aren’t any tears, any thoughts of going back on this decision. The world’s so dumb, he thinks. It doesn’t need him. It never needed him.</p><p> "Sometimes, all that you need is someone to hold you close."</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Many Times Sherlock Couldn't Kill Himself, But One Time Someone Gave Him Something To Keep Living For

**Author's Note:**

> Let's just say that I was in a very angst mode and I needed to do something about it.  
> I'd like to also thank a friend of mine, Mari, for all the OTP-shared-feels. Thank you, dear.

Sherlock walks in the direction of the cliff. He had thought about doing so for long enough. He can’t take it anymore. It’s the eve of his twentieth birthday, but it doesn’t feel happy as it’s supposed to. He’s the black sheep of the family at this time and he started going through a depression recently, leading to the constant thought of suicide to free himself of the agony of living such a sad life.

He never had any friends. The majority of all the people he’d ever met had either mocked him or backed away with no more than two words of disgust. The closest that Sherlock ever came to having a friend was Victor Trevor, the American student who studied with him before leaving for his mother country a couple of months before. Even his brother, Mycroft, wasn’t a person that he was very fond of; mostly because of the amount of pampering that he got from their parents without any apparent reason.

Crying had become a habit; it gave him relief, somehow. But the bad thing about it was that he was so tired of his currently situation that the tears seemed to be endless. On the last three weeks, it began to not give him any peace of mind, anymore. Crying his frustrations became a bad thing, then. Everything slowly became dull, lacking any emotion, giving him neither happiness, neither sadness. By this time, a frown took place of all the other expressions. His young, once vivid aquamarine eyes became cold. It didn’t matter anymore. Actually, it never did.

Walking towards the cliff to let himself fall to death, he doesn’t regret anything. There aren’t any tears, any thoughts of going back on this decision. The world’s so dumb, he thinks. It doesn’t need him. It never needed him.

He closes his eyes, feeling the wind plays in his face and on his dark brown curls. Sherlock keeps walking. He doesn’t want to see the end, he doesn’t feel that he deserve to see it. He’s fully aware that he’ll sure feel it, but he doesn’t want to see it.

The moon is the only light in the sky, because of the lack of stars on that night. However, there were never any stars on his life.

Sherlock feels the edge of the cliff through his shoes. He’s prepared for this. Prepared to do anything. He just wants it to end. He can feel himself falling already.

But a hand stops him by pulling him back. Sherlock snaps his eyes open.

He hears his brother shouting his name far away. Mycroft sounds a bit desperate, but not sobbing, neither crying. He’s soon near him, saying how foolish the idea of taking his own life was, hugging him awkwardly – Mycroft never was someone who appreciated hugging – mumbling nonsense that Sherlock didn’t wanted to listen.

The bloke who stopped him from falling identified himself as Lestrade, a friend of Mycroft who was working on Scotland Yard. Sherlock remembered of his brother talking something about him once or twice, but they’ve never meet before this night. Talk about the oddest of the occasions to meet someone.

Later on, when they were almost back home and far away from Lestrade, Mycroft stopped to ask him.

“Why, Sherlock? You’ve made too many idiotic decisions on your life, but this was unexpected. Anything that I should know?”

“Living is boring. I don’t understand how you can stand it, since you claim to be so clever.”

“If you’re planning on trying again, I’ll be forced to tell our parents. Mummy would be glad to find you a therapist for you.”

“I don’t need a therapist. Although, I wonder why you didn’t tell them anything. To get a chance to blackmail me, perhaps?” He asked, the icy glare not leaving Mycroft.

“They aren’t home. Our father had a…” Mycroft’s voice got caught in his throat, before finally coming out, almost desperately. “…heart attack. It was so suddenly… he was talking to a colleague on the living room and it happened. Mummy said to find you, but when I tried your room, I found a suicide note there and, well, I had enough problems for one night.”

“Why did you bring Lestrade, after all? You’re pretty much capable of deducting than a Scotland Yard officer. You could’ve found me by yourself.”

Mycroft gave him a look, then looked away, guiltily.

“Oh no… don’t tell me. You’re dating. What a surprise, coming from someone who once said on the dinner table that wouldn’t marry to become a business man.”

“Shut up.” Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“You can’t fool Mummy, you know. If she doesn’t already know, she’ll figure it out.”

“Sherlock, listen. We don’t need to bring anything up right now. Especially considering how fragile our family is, actually. I keep your secret if you keep mine. Just don’t try to kill yourself again.”

They restart walking. When the older brother reaches the doorknob with the keys, however, Sherlock makes an attempt of getting attention.

“Then, tell me what I should do, because I can’t stand this world anymore.”

 “Oh, for God’s sake. Find a hobby or something.” He whispers, indifferently, before opening the door and letting them both in.”

 

* * *

 

Five years later. Lestrade finds Sherlock on an alley, almost dying because of drugs overdose. He drives him to the nearest hospital the faster he can, while dialling Mycroft’s number on his phone.

Mycroft, however, can’t come. As one day he said that he would, in the past, he became a very busy man, occupying a minor position on the British Government (although many times, his role seemed to be bigger than he actually described it as being so). He’s on Switzerland when it happens.

Sherlock is almost drifting away when he hears Lestrade saying a soft “I miss you” on the phone. Talk about cliché romances.

Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade was about to find later, had an ability of always getting himself almost killed or either find hobbies that would do so.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock is on his thirties. Having such amazing skills on the art of deduction, he decided some years before that he’d become some sort of detective. But unlikely everybody else who options by this profession, he decided that he wouldn’t like to join the Scotland Yard.

Once meeting Lestrade, who has a trouble with a case, he asks to be allowed in the crime scene. Lestrade, now a Detective Inspector complains for a minute, but lets the man to come along. An opinion can’t be that bad.

Although, he’s amazed by how precise Sherlock’s deductions turn out to be. This slowly leads to the Detective Inspector always coming to consult the man when the cases turn out being hard to crack, which is almost 70% of the time. Sherlock is always right. He never fails. The people of Lestrade’s team don’t like him, but he doesn’t seem to care about that so much.

It kills the boredom observing through the complexity of a murder, observing how dull is the normal people’s lives.  Almost like playing a game with real life elements. Sherlock likes the feeling of being able to see through the mystery.

He finally entitles himself a Consulting Detective.

Lestrade breaks up with Mycroft. He’s soon dating a woman. None of them actually mention what happened, but Sherlock knows. He also knows that Lestrade will soon want to marry her, but that he’ll regret doing so when he finds out her true intentions. It’s just a matter of observation.

Sherlock still wonders how much time it will take until he gets a case that will actually kill him and take the murderer with him. The feeling of getting himself killed never left him. It just softened to a point where it doesn’t really matter how it happens.

However, one day, his life changes.

After having a fight with his landlord, Sherlock plans on getting another flat. The flat that he’s aiming though, despite the landlady making a good price, can’t be afforded by him alone. He complains about the fact with Mike Stamford, who he first met during one of his first cases, when he went into the St Bart’s hospital to see the victim’s body. They aren’t even friends, they just… know each other – Sherlock seems to know everyone better, anyway – and often talk when the Consulting is there either doing crazy experiments between cases, either coming from the morgue after seeing a body for a case.

After the lunch, Mike comes back with a friend, an ex-soldier and also doctor that came back from a war (later confirmed as being in Afghanistan) with a psychosomatic limp, John Watson. Sherlock deduces that this man is Mike’s attempt of getting him a flatmate. So obvious. He notices how Stamford isn’t wearing his coat and purposely asks him to borrow his phone. Mike, just as he thought, left the thing on his coat. The other man quickly offers his own phone.

_Yes, definitively looking for a flat share_ , Sherlock deduces by the man’s phone, while sending Lestrade a text about some case. He proceeds to purpose where they should meet to look up at a flat on the next day, before dashing to get a riding crop that he forgot on the morgue, after an experiment earlier. When John seems to be confused by how fast things are going, Sherlock practically deduces a good part of the man’s life, gives his name and the address and goes away. He can hear Mike saying “Yes, he’s always like that” and smiles. He can remember the look of surprise on this Watson man’s face. He’s once more right on his deductions. At least he hopes.

 

* * *

 

They meet again on the next day. The landlady is a gentle mistress who Sherlock met some years before, when he assured that her husband would be executed by his crimes. She’s introduced as being Mrs Hudson and like mostly old ladies, seems to be a lovely motherly woman.

They barely have time to look up on the flat before Lestrade comes. It’s about the supposed serial suicides that people are talking about on the newspaper. Sherlock knows that a new one happened and that something is off this time, or else the Detective Inspector wouldn’t come. John has no idea of what’s actually going on, while Sherlock leaves.

Mrs Hudson offers him tea, saying gently to him don’t get used to it, because she’s not his housekeeper or anything. Although, the very tall Sherlock Holmes comes back.

“You’re a doctor. An army doctor.” He says.

“Yes.” John confirms.

“A good one?”

“Very good.”

“You must’ve seen all the kinds of violent deaths and wounds.”

“Yes, a lot of them.” John says with a sigh.

“Want to see more?”

“Oh God, yes.” He answers without any hesitation, leaving the comfort of the armchair where he sat before, after the suggestion of making himself at home while Sherlock were out.

This is the start of an association of some sorts. However, Sherlock, who didn’t seem to care about anyone since a good while, leaves the crime scene after noticing that the lack of a suitcase should’ve been a clue.

John is left to go back home alone. Unlikely his flatmate, he doesn’t seem to have an ability of producing a cab out of nowhere. Frustrated, he walks, noticing how oddly some phones seem to be ringing more than necessary. And so, he reaches a public phone box. The damn thing is also ringing, so he thinks that it sounds correct to take it.

Whoever was calling kidnaps him just to offer money to spy Sherlock. Watson denies the offer and leaves.

At night, Sherlock manages to proof him that his limp is psychosomatic as he stated previously and almost gets himself killed once more. He would sure be dead, if it wasn’t by John shooting the murderer.

John finds out that the man who kidnapped him before is his flatmate’s brother, Mycroft Holmes. As mostly of the time, Mycroft is concerned about his younger brother. The younger, however, doesn’t seem to care.

 

Time passes. A series of other cases come, Watson being always with Holmes, both to prevent the man of getting himself killed and because he enjoys this, somehow, even that he never confesses that.

He learns that the slender man prefers to distance himself from emotions, from any feelings. This bothers him, but he never asks. At least not until that fateful day, when he goes downstairs to complain about his – now – friend’s habit of playing the violin at such a time as three in the morning. The man isn’t just playing the violin, he’s crying. John stands there, quietly and listens for a moment. The music is sad, a lament that can’t be translated into actual words.

“Sherlock?”

The man jumps when he notices John here, as if he didn’t expect to be caught in such a situation. Watson is unsure if he should reach for him, but decides that he should when Sherlock lets out a sigh.

“I thought that I didn’t need to go through the trouble of emotions again, John. I really believed that. I just needed the excitement of the cases.”

“Why this, Sherlock? Why can’t you just laugh or cry like everyone else? You know, letting it out gives one some relief.”

“No, it doesn’t work that way. If I dare myself to drown into these feels, I’ll just end being sad. People walk away from me when I let out any kind of feelings, it seems.”

“Tell me what’s wrong… please.”

“No, you’ll not want to talk to me anymore. I don’t want it to happen. Just… go back to sleep.” He says, still facing the window. There’s a long minute of silence where he thinks that John will just give up and go away. He waits for the sound of footsteps that never comes.

_Just go away Watson, you don’t need to care, you don’t need my suffering, just go away._

But John gets a hold of his forearm, forcing him to turn around. The smaller man doesn’t say nothing, just hugs Sherlock.

“You’ll have to do more than that to make me go away.”

Sherlock gives up and hugs back. He cries and for the first time in so many years, it feels relieving, in the comfort of the army doctor’s arms. It feels right to dive into feelings while he digs his long fingers in the back of John’s jumper.

They stay like this for a long while, until Sherlock’s sobs calm down a bit.

“How would you feel, John, if you loved someone that you aren’t supposed to?”

“One can’t control his own heart, Sherlock. There’s nothing of ‘you aren’t supposed to’-“

“I think that I’m in love with you. And this is killing me.” He cuts John.  It sounds so direct, so Sherlock, but with this little bit of uncertainty, as if he were asking what he should do about that. It’s done now. At any moment John will release him and run away. Sherlock sighs, a bit of regret in the way it comes out. He doesn’t John to leave.

But John just hugs him tighter, for his surprise.

“I was waiting for you to say it. I love you too. Or else, don’t you think that I would have left so much time ago?” He looks up to make sure that he really meant to say it.

For once, in too many years, Sherlock has a genuine smile on his lips. Not one of those that he spots when he deduced something right on a crime scene, but something out of his usual character, something soft.

He cups John’s face with his hands still a bit unsure. They exchange a look that talks for a whole conversation.

 

_Are you really sure that it’s this that you want, John?_

_I have never been surer in my whole life._

_I have never… I… how does one do this?_

_Just let me teach you, you’re a fast learner after all._

_Okay, do your best, Watson._

John reaches up for the back of Sherlock’s neck, tangling his hand on the dark curls as he pulls the man down for a kiss. Holmes is hesitant for a moment, but he finally starts exploring those sensations, exploring John’s body with tempted hands while trying to memorize how the blonde’s month feels like, the way that John’s hand tangles on his hair so comfortably and how he once planned to die before even feeling this.

He doesn’t want it to end, but the lack of air forces them both to stop.

“Why didn’t you tell anything sooner?” John asks between pants, his face still so close to Sherlock’s.

“I thought that you’d leave me. I wanted to keep you close.”

“Why, should I ask?”

“Because you keep bringing me back to life and it becomes less boring to live.”

“Oh, you prat.” John giggles.

Sherlock pulls him into another kiss. He’s indeed a fast learner.

And for once, in his whole life, somebody didn’t just save his life, but gave it a reason to don’t end it. A very good reason to stay. It felt like being dead all this time and begin living again.

Maybe it was his fate to fail every time that he tried to get himself killed to meet someone that would rescue him from his sadness to fill a space that was empty in his life.

“Please never leave… John… never leave…” He whispers between kisses.

John just kisses him more, pulling him even closer, to assure that. They don’t know exactly how they make it to Sherlock’s bedroom. But once that John’s aware of the fact, he whispers, softly,

“Let’s take things slowly. We have time. We have our whole lives.”

Sherlock nods, taking off his dressing gown and then pulling the duvet over both of them. John curls up into him. It feels warm and so comfortable that it’s perfect. He places a kiss on the top of John’s head.

“Goodnight, John” He whispers.

“Goodnight, Sherlock”

They slowly drift away half of a hour later, the warmth of each other’s bodies comforting them and inspiring good dreams.


End file.
